Trust Once Lost
by Every Shade of Blue
Summary: Follows Sam through 2.16 Somebody's Going to Emergency through 3.03 Manchester, Part 2 as he struggles with the betrayal of his trust in both his father and father-figure. Toby, Josh, and Bartlet himself feature as they help Sam find his feet again. [Rated T for a bit of language.]
1. Chapter 1

**Before _Somebody's Going to Emergency, Somebody's Going to Jail_**

The Oval Office was bright and sunny, the atmosphere relaxed. The meeting between the president and his senior staff was beginning to wind down, with just a few last pieces of business to attend to before everyone would be dismissed. At the moment, Bartlet was talking to CJ, asking for more detail on a press release she had planned for later in the afternoon.

Sam Seaborn was not listening. He had tried to at first, but somewhere along the line, the voices of his colleagues had faded, becoming little more to him than tuneless background noise. He stared unseeingly at a patch of carpet in between his shoes, utterly unaware that the conversation had just shifted. His own preoccupation, the tumultuous thoughts that had been rattling around his head since the night before, seemed to fill his ears with a faint buzzing.

"Sam?"

He jumped, snapping suddenly out of his reverie as the president called his name for what he suspected was not the first time.

"Nice of you to join us," Bartlet said sardonically, an eyebrow raised at his Deputy Communications Director's uncharacteristic absentmindedness.

Sam reddened slightly, looking suitably abashed. "Sorry, sir, I… what was the question?"

"I just asked how the speech was coming along."

"Oh… right." Sam hesitated for a brief moment, struggling to get his thoughts in order, then answered, "It's almost finished. I should have it ready to go over with Toby sometime this afternoon, and then we'll come up with a final draft."

Bartlet studied him intently for a moment, then nodded. "All right."

Sam sank back into his seat with a faint sigh as the conversation moved on, listening mutely as the president expressed his satisfaction and then dismissed the assembled group. He had just started to rise when Bartlet amended his statement.

"Sam, you stay back for a minute, please."

Dreading what was to come, Sam reluctantly sat back down.

Bartlet waited until the rest of the senior staff had left, most of them casting curious looks in Sam's direction, before again addressing the obviously distracted young man. "Everything all right, Sam?"

For a minute or two, Sam didn't answer. He sat stiffly, hunched over, hands clasped together to keep them from shaking. Finally, he spoke. "I just – " His voice was so quiet it could barely be heard. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Have – have you ever known someone for a really long time – decades, even – someone you trust and admire, and then one day… one day you find out something about them that changes everything, and you realize that they never really were the person you thought you knew at all?" He finally forced himself to look up at the president, and Bartlet saw that his eyes were shining, his expression lost and pleading.

"Sam…"

Just as quickly as the vulnerability had appeared, it was gone, a blank mask snapping down over Sam's face. He stared at the carpet again. "Can I go now, sir?"

Bartlet was reluctant to let him leave while he was clearly still in such a state of distress. But it was also clear that whatever was bothering him, he didn't want to talk about it at the moment. So he nodded. "You can go, Sam."

"Thank you," came the quiet response as Sam stood shakily and hurried out of the room.

Almost as soon as he was gone, Charlie appeared in the doorway. Before he could so much as open his mouth, the president spoke. "Would I be correct in assuming that Leo's been standing right outside?"

"Yes, sir," Charlie gave his usual reply, by now no longer bothering to wonder how the president knew.

"Send him in."

"Yes, sir."

Charlie stepped out, and Leo appeared a moment later, settling into the chair across from his friend's.

"I'm guessing you heard all that?" Bartlet asked, knowing that his Chief of Staff would be just as worried about Sam as he was.

Leo nodded. "Not that he really gave you much. But Jesus, what's a kid like him doing talking about decades? Sam's what, thirty-three?"

"Thirty-two," Bartlet corrected.

"All right then," Leo conceded. "So how many people could he possibly have known for decades who have been lying about who they are?"

Bartlet shook his head. "Not too many, Leo. That's what worries me."

* * *

Sam was relieved to escape the Oval Office, but upon exiting it, realized immediately that he didn't know where to go. He knew that what he should do was go back to his own office and continue working on the speech – but that would likely mean facing Toby, and the last thing he wanted right now was to have to face one of his colleagues.

Just a few minutes later, however, he found himself correcting his assessment. The _actual_ last thing he wanted, he thought even as it happened, was to be pulled into CJ's office and forced to face _all_ of his colleagues. But nonetheless, there were CJ, Josh, and Toby, all standing there waiting for him, and all – even Toby, although to a lesser extent – looking concerned.

Knowing that he'd never escape, Sam tried to avoid making eye contact with any of them as he sat heavily on the edge of CJ's desk, letting the other three arrange themselves in a semicircle around him. When a long moment had passed and he had still failed to break the silence, however, CJ prompted him softly.

"What's the matter, Samshine?"

Hands beginning to shake again, Sam folded his arms tightly across his chest in what none of the other three failed to recognize as a defensive posture.

"I just found out that my dad's been having an affair for the last twenty-eight years."

For a long moment, the room was filled with a shocked silence. Once the words sank in, though, it was CJ who finally broke it.

"Oh, Sam…" She sat on the desk next to him and put an arm around him, tightening her hold when he leaned against her and rested his head on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, buddy," Josh said softly, stepping forward to give Sam's shoulder a squeeze.

Sam nodded slightly, not looking at him or any of them. "Yeah."

Toby didn't say anything. He was shocked, furious. He'd never met Sam's father, had never even so much as seen a picture of him, and so the sudden ferocity of his anger surprised him. If he'd known where the elder Seaborn lived, he would gladly have caught a redeye out to California just to punch the man in the face. Pushing his own rising feelings of brotherly protectiveness aside, he cast around for something he could say to Sam, anything that might make him feel better. Verbal comfort never had been his strong suit, though, and before he could come up with anything beyond the most useless of platitudes, Sam had gently shrugged off CJ's arm and stood up.

"I should go," he said lamely, still not looking any of them in the eye. "I've got work to do."

Not knowing what else to do for him, they had to let him leave.

* * *

"We should have told him to go home."

Leo raised an eyebrow at Toby's statement. "Oh, come on. It's Sam; you really think he would have gone?"

"No," Toby conceded.

Shaking his head, Leo walked over to the window that separated Toby's office from Sam's, staring through it at the young man in question. As far as he could tell, Sam hadn't even noticed he was there. Despite his earlier insistence that he had work to do, Toby had looked in on him enough times throughout the day to see that Sam hadn't accomplished much.

"Twenty-eight years, though?" Leo asked softly, still not sure he believed it.

"That's what he said," Toby confirmed grimly.

"God, that's most of his life."

Toby didn't answer. He was more than aware of that; in fact, he'd spent most of the afternoon trying not to think about Sam, at just four years old, blissfully unaware that his father was not – and now would never be – the man he thought he was.

Once again shaking his head in disbelief, Leo headed for the door. "I'd better get back to the president. I'll have to tell him; he's been worried about Sam since staff this morning."

Toby nodded.

"I'll tell him not to ask Sam about it, though. You, Josh, and CJ just keep an eye on him. I know Sam's not the most emotionally open guy, but… this one's gonna be pretty hard on him."

"Yeah," Toby sighed tiredly. "I know."


	2. Chapter 2

**After _Somebody's Going to Emergency, Somebody's Going to Jail_**

So Sam had been sleeping on the couch in his office for three days now. After what had happened, that in itself wasn't all that shocking. What had come as a surprise, though, was that he'd had to hear about it from Leo. Toby threw his ball a little harder than usual, satisfied at the loud _thump_ it made as it hit that wall and bounced back into his hand. How the hell had he not seen it? He'd noticed that Sam wasn't his usual talkative, cheerful self, but that he'd been expecting. He hadn't been expecting Sam's apparent unwillingness to go home, though, and so had failed to notice it.

That settled it; they were going out tonight. It was a Friday, so no one would mind if Sam didn't show up at work first thing the next morning, or in fact didn't show up at all. Toby was taking Sam to a bar and getting him as drunk as he could and putting him to bed in his own apartment.

Mind made up, Toby left his office in search of Josh and CJ, intending to recruit their help in the drowning of Sam's troubles.

* * *

Throughout the day, Toby hadn't seen much of Sam. It was Cheese Day, after all, so he had plenty of crackpots to keep him busy. Sam had been busy with something as well, but Toby wasn't sure what, as Sam had been exempt from the Cheese Day meetings this time around. Toby was grateful to Leo for that.

Now, Sam, Toby, Josh, and CJ were all at last out of the office and relaxing at a Georgetown bar, nursing beers as CJ regaled them with her tale of the Cartographers for Social Equality. At first, it seemed to be going well. Sam was laughing – mostly at Josh's more often than not ridiculous attempts to "help" CJ tell the story – but after a while, Toby was forced to admit that Sam's heart really didn't seem to be in it. He knew CJ could see it, too. Josh, unfortunately, with his exceedingly low tolerance for alcohol, already seemed to be too far gone to remember why they'd all gone out in the first place.

When Sam excused himself to find the restroom, CJ leaned over to Toby. "This isn't working, is it?"

"Not really." He glanced at the glass Sam had left at his seat. It was still almost half full.

"He doesn't seem to be very interesting in drinking."

Toby shook his head. Sam never had been much of a drinker. He could hold his alcohol better than Josh, but it wasn't his go-to solution to his problems. Which would be a healthy attitude, Toby admitted sardonically to himself, if Sam had any other way of coping. Which, unfortunately, he really didn't seem to. Glancing at Josh, who was beginning to sway unsteadily in his seat, Toby answered CJ, "No, he doesn't. Why don't you just take Josh home? I'll take care of Sam."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

CJ nodded and stood, swinging her coat on before turning her attention to Josh. "Come on, big guy," she said, rolling her eyes as she pulled him to his feet, ignoring his slurred protests. "We're going home." Once she'd finally managed to stem the flow of drunken mumbling and get his coat settled around his shoulders, she glanced back at Toby. "Tell Sam we'll see him tomorrow. And he can call us – well, me at least, for the time being – anytime he wants to talk."

Toby nodded, and CJ and Josh made their way out of the bar. A minute later, Sam emerged from the restroom, winding his way between the tables until he reached their own, looking at the two empty places in surprise.

"Did Josh and CJ leave already?"

"Yeah," Toby answered shortly, reaching for his wallet and counting out a few bills.

"I thought the plan tonight was to get me drunk."

"Well, Sam, that'd be a lot easier if you were actually drinking," Toby pointed out. "Or if you were as big of a lightweight as Josh," he added as an afterthought.

"Yeah," Sam mumbled sheepishly, staring into his beer as Toby stood and pulled his coat on. "I just… I don't know. I don't really feel like it."

"I'd noticed," Toby replied dryly. "Seems like you'd rather just go home."

Sam hesitated just a fraction of a second too long before he answered. "Yeah. That sounds good."

Toby rolled his eyes as Sam turned away, busying himself with his own coat. "You're not really going home, are you?"

"Where else would I go?" Sam asked, doing his best to sound genuinely confused at the remark.

"Oh, I don't know…" Toby said, "maybe the couch in my office, since that's apparently your favorite home-away-from-home now?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Sam muttered as they stepped outside, tugging the collar of his coat up higher against the frigid night air and carefully avoiding Toby's suspicious gaze.

"Like hell. You've spent the last three nights there."

"No, I haven't."

"Sam…" Toby sighed, rubbing his forehead.

Sam knew there was no point in trying to deny it anymore. "So what if I have?" he said defensively.

Toby didn't rise to the bait. "Why didn't you just go home, Sam?" he asked quietly.

Surprised to recognize genuine concern in the older man's tone, Sam finally turned to face him, shoulders sagging in defeat. "I don't know," he answered just as softly. "I don't know. I just… I couldn't face it."

Trying to ignore how much the sight of Sam's vulnerability and pain affected him, Toby turned and began to walk toward his car, knowing Sam would follow him. "It's a good thing Josh is the lightweight and not me," he said gruffly.

"Why?" Sam asked in confusion, quickly catching up to him.

"Because I've got a spare room, and he doesn't."

Sam stopped walking. "Are you – are you saying I can stay with you?"

"Yeah, Sam," Toby answered as if it should have been obvious. "If you're not gonna go home, what else am I supposed to do with you?" He stared to walk again, and after a moment, Sam once again followed. "Besides, the couch in my office is for public use during office hours only."

"Oh, really?" Sam asked, grinning slightly.

"Yeah. And even then it's iffy."

"Right. I'll keep that in mind."

"You'd better," Toby said as they reached the car and he unlocked the passenger door for Sam. "You're the worst offender."

* * *

It was nine in the morning, and Sam was still asleep. Toby had actually looked in on him, half convinced that he must have snuck out the window in the middle of the night, as that seemed more likely than Sam sleeping so late. But the dark hair sticking out of the tangled bundle of comforter proved that Sam was indeed still there, so Toby had quietly closed the door and headed to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, calling Leo to tell him that he and Sam wouldn't be in today while it brewed.

"He hungover?" Leo asked.

"No. The, uh, 'getting him drunk' bit didn't really work out."

"What the hell's he doing at your place, then?"

"He doesn't want to go home, Leo. What was I supposed to do, drive him back to the office so he could sleep on my couch?" Toby paused while he poured himself a cup of coffee and took a sip. "I'll wait till he wakes up, then try to talk to him."

" _You're_ going to talk to him?"

"That a problem?"

"Last time I checked, you weren't much of a therapist."

Toby rolled his eyes. "He doesn't need therapy, Leo. He needs…" He cast a brief glance in the direction of Sam's room, then finished quietly, "He needs a friend."

"Yeah," Leo agreed. "All right. See if you can get him to call me later, then. You know the president's not going to give me any peace once he finds out Sam's not coming in."

"Yeah." Ending the call, Toby took his coffee and the crossword from the newspaper out to the living room and settled into his favorite armchair to wait for Sam to wake up.

Another hour and a half had passed before Toby at last heard the sound of the door to the spare room opening. A minute later, a sleepy-looking Sam came into view, rubbing his eyes. "Toby?" He cleared his throat, running a hand through his unruly hair. "What time is it?"

"About ten thirty."

Sam stared at him. "I've been asleep that long?"

"Apparently." Toby glanced up from his crossword. "There's coffee in the kitchen, if you want." He went back to his crossword, listening to Sam fixing his coffee in the next room. Sam wasn't the only one who was surprised that he'd slept so late, Toby thought. Even when he didn't have to get up for work – which was rare – Sam was usually an early riser. He really must have been exhausted.

Sam came back in and settled onto the couch, warming his hands on his steaming mug as he sipped his drink, waiting for the caffeine to help fully wake him up. He couldn't remember the last time he'd staying in bed until ten thirty, and he felt better than he had all week. The bed in Toby's spare room was a hell of a lot more comfortable than the couch in Toby's office.

The two of them sat in silence for a long time, Sam slowly drinking his coffee, and Toby racking his brain for the last few answers to the crossword. Finally giving up, though, he set the paper aside and tossed the pencil on top of it, turning his attention to the room's other occupant, who carefully avoided looking at him. Toby sighed quietly, knowing that nothing useful would ever happen here if he didn't get the ball rolling.

"Talk to me, Sam."

Sam took another sip of coffee. "The weather's nice today." At Toby's raised eyebrow, he shrugged and said innocently, "You didn't specify what I should talk about."

" _Sam_."

For just a second, Toby saw Sam's mask slip – then he ducked his head and turned away to set his mug on the coffee table, leaning back against the couch and folding his arms across his chest. "I don't know what you want me to say."

" _Anything_ , Sam. Since the day you told us about your dad, you've been trying to act like nothing happened! So say you hate him, say he's a bastard, hell, say you don't care... dammit, Sam, just say _something_."

"I don't hate him," Sam mumbled, picking at a loose thread on the sleeve of his t-shirt. Toby had to lean forward so he could hear him better. "I thought I would. I _wanted_ to. But I don't know… I just don't."

Toby didn't say anything. Even if he'd had any idea what he _could_ say, he was afraid that if he interrupted, Sam would stop talking.

"He used to miss things, sometimes. School stuff, my baseball games, one or two birthdays… I remember my mom telling me he was travelling for work, and I believed it. We both did. But now… now I know he wasn't. Now I know he wasn't there for my tenth birthday or my eighth grade graduation or the championship game my junior year or – or any of it, because he was with _her_."

Toby didn't need to ask who 'her' was. He was just doing his best not to think about how much longer Sam's list might have been if he hadn't stopped himself.

"I trusted him. I was always so damn happy when he _was_ there, I'd forget about whatever else he'd missed. And I looked up to him. I went to law school because he was a lawyer. I wanted – I wanted to be just like him." He turned away, dragging an arm across his eyes. "I wanted to _be_ him."

Toby's urge to beat the living crap out of Sam's father had returned with a vengeance. To do what he'd done to a kid like Sam… the man had to be heartless.

"And you know what the really shitty part is?" Sam asked. "I miss him."

"No, you don't," Toby answered vehemently.

Surprised, Sam finally turned to face him. "What?"

"You don't miss him," Toby said. "You miss the idea of him. You miss being able to think about him as the dad you looked up to, instead of the bastard who's been screwing over you and your mom since you were four." He gave Sam a hard look. "You want to be innocent again."

"Yeah," Sam said bitterly. "Yeah, I know that's what you all think. 'Poor innocent Sam, trusted someone else he shouldn't have and got screwed again. Maybe he should just grow the fuck up!'"

Toby stared at him. "Sam – "

"I'm sorry if I don't know how to be like the rest of you, all right? I'm sorry I don't automatically assume everyone I meet has some shitty ulterior motive, and I'm sorry – "

"Sam! That's not – that's not what I meant!" He got up and moved Sam's coffee mug, sitting on the table in front of him. "For the love of God, did you really think I wanted you to apologize for trusting your own dad? That's not what I meant!" He took a deep breath. He was so far out of his comfort zone by now that he wasn't even sure what would get him out of this, so he did the only thing he could and waded in farther. "Do you really think there's _anyone_ who wouldn't be fucked up by finding out what you did? You got screwed! That's not your fault. We don't want you to grow up, Sam, we want you to realize that you're better than your dad and he's not worth beating yourself up over!"

"What?"

"If he didn't care enough about his family to actually be a proper father, then screw him! He's not worth it, Sam!" He rubbed his forehead, wondering if any of what he was saying was actually getting through to Sam. "And for crying out loud, where the hell would we be if you were as cynical as the rest of us? One out of the four of us has to be… you know… normal."

Sam's lips twitched, and then he finally managed a weak smile. "Right. I walked into a door the other day and broke my glasses, but I'm the normal one."

Toby smiled back, relieved. "Yeah. You've got a spare pair, right?"

"They, uh… they were the spare ones," Sam admitted sheepishly.

Toby let out a snort of laughter. "Of course they were." He reached out and gripped his surrogate little brother's shoulder, hoping that what he'd said was what Sam had needed to hear. "You're not your dad, all right? He's not worth your time. Besides, you've got all the family you need right here in DC. All right?"

Sam nodded, smiling again gratefully. "Yeah. All right."


	3. Chapter 3

**_The Fall's Gonna Kill You_**

Sam felt like he was frozen. Top graduate from two prestigious universities, successful lawyer, and speechwriter to the president of the United States, and that was the only way he could think to describe the cold shock that seemed to have gripped his entire body in its unrelenting hold.

 _This can't be happening again. Not again._

"You – you have what?" He could barely hear his own voice over the sound of his heart pounding in his ears.

"MS, Sam," the president answered calmly, evenly, as though they were discussing something as innocuous as the weather. "Multiple sclerosis."

 _I know what it stands for. Of course I know what it stands for. Don't talk to me like I'm stupid, don't –_

"How long have you known?"

Bartlet considered him for a long moment, as though trying to judge what his reaction to the answer would be. Then he said softly, "Eight years." He watched as the already pale young man before him went almost white.

Sam was reeling, his entire world suddenly falling apart around him for the second time.

 _Not again not again not again no please not again –_

"Are we done here, sir?" He hadn't even realized he'd intended to speak until the words were out of his mouth. He didn't recognize his own voice. It was far too calm. He couldn't even begin to reconcile it with the whirling torrent of thoughts and emotions inside of him; it sounded completely foreign.

"Sam – "

"Are we done?" He couldn't even bring himself to look at the president now, his eyes fixed on a spot on the far wall.

Bartlet was surprised. Sam had never once forgotten to add the 'sir' – until now. He didn't even seem to have noticed he'd done it. Bartlet flinched slightly when he saw that the familiar blue eyes that were now looking steadfastly at anything but him were full of hurt and betrayal – and something else he couldn't quite identify. Whatever it was, he'd never seen it there before.

"We're done."

Sam couldn't bring himself to say anything else. Fighting for control, he turned and left as quickly as he could.

There was silence for a minute. Then Bartlet said quietly, "I feel like I should go after him."

But Leo shook his head immediately. "No."

Bartlet raised an eyebrow, silently questioning his friend's quick answer.

"You've never seen Sam angry, have you?" Leo asked grimly.

Bartlet thought about it for a moment. He'd seen the young man frustrated, exasperated, irritated, perhaps even bordering on pissed – but never truly angry. "Sam can get angry?"

"He can. It takes a lot, but he can."

"You know, to be honest, I'd almost rather he did just get good and mad at me now and get it over with. I can take it; I've already been yelled at by Toby – "

"Sam doesn't yell when he's angry, Jed," Leo interrupted him.

"I've heard Sam yell. Well, almost."

"He raises his voice when he's annoyed, sure," Leo agreed. "But when he's angry…" He shook his head. "He gets quiet. It's like he's burning cold. Trust me, you don't want to be on the receiving end of that."

"No… I'd imagine not," Bartlet mused. It took quite a stretch of the imagination, but he could picture those sparkling baby blues turning to ice with fury. It was hard enough seeing Sam disappointed; seeing him like _that_ was something Bartlet decided he never wanted. Glancing at the clock, he asked, "Anyone else still around?"

"Toby knows I asked Sam to come here, if that's what you're asking," Leo answered. "He told Sam he'd wait for him."

"Good," Bartlet nodded, relieved. "Do me a favor, Leo, and make sure that's where Sam goes. He shouldn't be alone right now."

"Yes, sir." Leo turned and followed the same path Sam had out of the room.

* * *

Josh was almost ready to leave for the night, intending to catch up with CJ, who he'd seen walking out just a minute earlier, when his office door slammed open and a Sam-shaped storm raged in.

"Sam, what – "

" _What the hell, Josh?"_

Josh shivered slightly. Sam's voice was dangerously quiet, and he was radiating fury. Josh braced himself. Sam was a lot like the Hulk, he reflected. _You wouldn't like me when I'm angry…_

"They told you." It wasn't a question.

"Damn right, they told me! 'Everyone else knows this already, Sam, but – '" He stopped abruptly, staring at Josh with eyes of burning ice. "Everyone else knows this already? Funny how 'everyone' forgot to mention it!"

Josh flinched at the accusation, wondering if it was even worth trying to defend himself. Sam could be almost impossible to reason with when he was like this. He decided to try anyway.

"I'm sorry, Sam, I swear. They practically made us promise not to. They said they'd tell you and CJ when the time was right, but then you were working on that speech… I didn't know they'd wait so long."

"Right, because that's the only thing that matters around here," Sam said bitterly. "Gotta make sure Sam doesn't mess up that speech, screw how he might actually feel about this – "

"Sam!" Josh interrupted, grabbing his friend by the shoulders and forcing him to look him in the eye. "It's not like that, and you know it. Look, I agree, what they did was shitty. But it's not – it's not like that."

Before he had even finished speaking, Josh was already bracing himself again for another volley from Sam. But to his surprise, it never came. Instead, Sam seemed to deflate. His shoulders sagged and his head dropped. He pulled away from Josh's grip and sat heavily on the edge of his desk, his back to Josh and the open door. Josh approached him tentatively, trying to read his face in the dim light. All traces of his former ire were gone, exhausted. Sam never could stay angry for very long. And besides, his anger now wasn't really at Josh.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered, staring at the floor. He sounded crushed, defeated. To his best friend, that was even worse than the anger.

Josh sat next to him. "It's okay, buddy."

"I'm not even mad at you. I'm mad at – " He couldn't finish the sentence.

"I know." Josh could only imagine what this must feel like for Sam, coming so soon after the revelation about his father. How many more of the people Sam trusted and looked up to were going to let him down so thoroughly?

"There are just certain things you're sure of…" Sam choked out, and when Josh looked at him, he could tell his friend was barely holding back tears.

"Like longitude and latitude," he finished for him, recalling the conversation Donna had told him about.

"Like longitude and latitude," Sam repeated in a broken whisper. Tears began to stream down his cheeks, and Josh put an arm around him, pulling him closer and letting him cry on his shoulder.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Manchester, Part 2_**

It was the middle of the night. The familiar old farm house was quiet for the first time since they had all arrived. Tomorrow was going to be a very big day, and so for once, at two in the morning, everyone was asleep.

Everyone except for Jed Bartlet. After tossing and turning for a few hours, he had finally accepted that sleep simply was not going to come, and had slipped quietly out of bed, doing his best not to disturb Abbey. Now he was wandering the halls absentmindedly, running through tomorrow's speech in his head, smiling slightly as he picked out which sections had been crafted by which of his two head speechwriters. The bits with all of the hard-hitting, decisive action verbs were Toby's; the bits with the metaphors and imagery were Sam's. Bartlet's smile grew wider as he thought about Sam and his love for the poetic – but then faltered as he compared the quiet, forlorn Sam of the last few weeks to the cheerful Sam whose writing, even at such a young age, had so impressed Bartlet at the beginning of the campaign. Sam had smiled so much more then. He had dreamed so much more. He had _believed_ so much more. But now… well, Bartlet thought guiltily, now what did Sam have to believe in?

Shaking himself out of his reverie, he looked around, trying to determine where in the sprawling house his feet had taken him. He smiled when he realized the answer: the west wing. It wasn't really an entire wing. It was simply a hallway of guest bedrooms that he and Abbey had decided would be the best place to house the staff for the duration of their stay. And through sheer happenstance, it was located on the west side of the house. During the last few days, Bartlet had heard several people jokingly referring to it as "the west wing two."

At this time of night, all of the doors were closed, the rooms behind them silent. It was the night before an event that the staff had spent long, hard, frustrating weeks planning, and now, with everything finally prepared, they were at last getting some much-needed rest.

Bartlet paced slowly down the hallway, knowing exactly who was behind each door that he passed. He knew how they were all feeling right now, even if none of them would ever admit it to him or to each other – or even to themselves. They felt let down. They felt betrayed, and as well they should. Bartlet had gone into the race all those years ago without a prayer or even an intention of winning. And then, somehow, those four kids had shown up – and like a miracle, things had begun to change. It was those four who had won the race, not him. And he had lied to them all.

Bartlet sighed heavily, marking off the names as he moved past the rooms. The first door on the left side of the hall was Josh. The next, over on the right, was Toby. The third, back on the left, was CJ. And the last door at the very end of the hall was… open.

Surprised, Bartlet stopped short, contemplating those few inches of space that spilled a shaft of dim light out into the hallway. Just because it was open didn't necessarily mean that Sam wanted company. Bartlet knew that many of the doors in this old house didn't latch very well anymore; if they weren't pulled tight, it only took the slightest draft to nudge them ajar. Sam had most likely meant to close it. Judging by the light, Bartlet guessed that he was awake, but he was sure Sam would want to be left alone.

And yet, he couldn't seem to forget what Abbey had said a few days before about talking to the staff. He knew she was right. He also knew she was worried about Sam. Hell, he was, too. He'd seen what a harsh blow it had been to the idealistic young man to learn of his father's affair. By now, he could only imagine how agonizingly Sam must be questioning his faith in all the people he had once thought he could trust.

Bartlet sighed again. Disappointing Sam Seaborn felt an awful lot like – well, like kicking a puppy, to put it bluntly. And so, steeling himself for what he was sure would be a less-than-warm welcome, Bartlet reached out and pushed open the door.

Sam was asleep. Bartlet couldn't help feeling relieved. He'd been willing to talk, for Sam's sake, but he hadn't particularly wanted a confrontation at this time of night. Stepping a bit closer to the bed, he saw that Sam appeared to have been working on something when he had dozed off. That came as no surprise; lately, it had seemed as if Sam had never really stopped working. Not for the first time, Bartlet wondered guiltily if throwing himself so fully into his work was Sam's way of hiding from how hurt he was.

Deciding that the young man certainly deserved a good night's sleep, Bartlet carefully gathered up the papers that were scattered over the blankets around him. It was a copy of tomorrow's speech. Bartlet shook his head. Even now, with the speech approved and locked in, Sam still wouldn't quit. Placing the stack of papers neatly on the nightstand, he reached for the lamp – and paused, looking at his deputy speechwriter.

Sam looked so young. For the first time in a long time, he looked like the bright, hopeful, smiling boy who had joined Bartlet's campaign to write and to bring the sunshine with him into every room he entered. That light had been terribly dimmed by the last few weeks. Those brilliant smiles were few and far between now, and rarely were they genuine. Praying that tomorrow he would be able to repair the rift that had formed between himself and his staff, Bartlet affectionately brushed a hand over Sam's dark hair, smiling as the young man sighed softly and burrowed deeper into his pillow. Then Bartlet pulled the blankets higher up over his youngest adopted son, turned the light off, and left, closing the door behind him as soundlessly as he could.

* * *

Abbey was awake when he got back to the master bedroom. She was propped up on several pillows, reading by the light of her bedside lamp, obviously waiting for him judging by the way she closed the book as soon as he entered.

"You should be sleeping," she reminded him.

"I know." He sat on the edge of the bed. "I didn't wake you when I got up, did I?"

Abbey shook her head. "No. I just woke up and realized you weren't here. Where did you go?"

"Oh… nowhere. I was just wandering."

Abbey set her book aside, giving her husband her most piercing look. "Liar," she chided gently. "You were checking up on the staff, weren't you?"

Knowing he'd lost, Bartlet admitted, "Yes. I didn't mean to. It was just where I ended up."

"And?"

"They're all sleeping, for once."

"Good." Abbey hesitated for a moment, then added, "And Sam?"

"He's a grown man, you know," Bartlet said quietly, stretching out on his side of the bed as he finally began to feel tired. "You don't need to worry about him so much."

"Oh, like hell," Abbey answered. "You know very well why I do. And so do you, so quit trying to pretend you don't. Sam is just so… young."

"They're all young."

"You always give that answer when I try to bring this up, and I wish you wouldn't," Abbey said, perhaps a little more sharply than she meant to. "You know that's not what I mean."

Bartlet looked at her for a long moment. "I do," he admitted finally.

"Sam is… innocent. He's hopeful. He's trusting. Hell, he's a bit naïve. And he's gotten awfully good at finding his way back onto his feet after he gets knocked down, but in this case… I think he could use some help."

"Yeah," Bartlet agreed softly.

"You really hurt him, Jed," Abbey said, not unkindly. "Even more than the rest. And it's not just because you lied to him; it's because he was the last to find out. For heaven's sake, Joey Lucas knew before him. She's an outsider. He's been here almost since the beginning. That was…"

"Crap," Bartlet finished for her. "I know."

"Then why the hell didn't you tell him sooner?" Abbey asked exasperatedly. "And don't try to give me the same bullshit line you gave everyone else about that speech he was working on. In case you'd forgotten, I'm a very smart woman, and I know that wasn't the real reason."

"I hadn't forgotten, believe me," Bartlet said with a hint of a smile. "You've never let me."

"Jed…"

The smile faded and he sighed, knowing she was waiting for him to answer the question. "You want the real reason? All right." He sat up and faced her. "I'm selfish."

She didn't answer, so he continued.

"I'm selfish, Abbey. That's it. That's why I didn't tell him. Everyone else knew, and they were all walking around the place looking like they were at a damned funeral – and then there was Sam. There was Sam, completely untouched by it all… I didn't want to lose that, Abbey. I didn't want to lose that one ray of light, that – that…"

"Hope," Abbey finished softly, understanding.

They lapsed into silence for several long minutes. Abbey reached over and took her husband's hand, and he massaged the back of hers with his thumb.

At long last, she said quietly, "Tomorrow, will you do like I said? Will you talk to them?"

Bartlet looked down at their intertwined fingers, marveling at how easily she had put aside their personal squabble for the sake of the staff – their second set of children.

"Yeah. Yeah, I will."

* * *

When he walked into the old schoolroom the next day, they were already there: Josh, Toby, CJ… Sam. All four of them had looks of uncertainty on their faces. They didn't know how they were supposed to feel right now, didn't know what they were supposed to think about him, about what he was about to announce, about all of it.

He had thought long and hard about what he was going to say to them the night before, long after Abbey had fallen back asleep. He was prepared now – or at least, he thought he was. The words he'd finally settled on ran through his head as he asked Bruno and his two speechwriters to leave the room. Once they were gone, he allowed himself to speak.

"Churchill and FDR: serious men using big words for big purpose..."

He stopped. He tried to continue. He couldn't. They were all standing there looking at him, expecting a speech, a lecture, eloquent words from an eloquent man. But that wasn't what they needed right now. That wasn't what they deserved. He needed them, and he had hurt them – and it was time they knew he was aware of that. It was time they knew…

"It occurs to me, I never said I'm sorry." Bartlet looked around the room at each of them, meeting each steady gaze, silently willing them to understand the sincerity of his words. Josh, his incorrigible but endlessly loyal Deputy Chief of Staff. Toby, his irascible, cynically idealistic Director of Communications. CJ, his level-headed, quick-witted Press Secretary. And finally…

Jed Bartlet locked eyes with the familiar, impossibly vivid baby blues.

"I am." _I'm sorry, Sam. I'm so sorry._ He continued to speak, glancing as often as he could toward his Deputy Director of Communications. _Don't let him stop trusting_ , he sent up a silent prayer. _Don't let him lose that innocence. Don't let him lose that light._

"There's a new book, and we're gonna write it…"

Sam was standing straighter now, his head held higher, his shoulders set.

 _Keep him believing. Keep him believing so he can keep all of_ us _believing._ "…It isn't worthy of us. It isn't worthy of America. It isn't worthy of a great nation. We're gonna write a new book, right here, right now. This very moment. Today." Bartlet pushed himself up off the desk he'd been leaning on and headed for the door. The staff followed.

 _Let him be optimistic. Let him be idealistic._

As he heard Abbey introduce him to the waiting crowd, he paused and turned back to face them one more time.

 _Let him be Sam._

"You know what?" He took a deep, steadying breath. "Break's over."

And Sam smiled.


End file.
